And Then You Were Gone by R. J. Jacobs

Author:R. J. Jacobs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

SEVENTEEN

“You need to get up.” A rough hand on my shoulder, then one under my arm, pulling up. Uniforms behind me. Then static, voices through small speakers.

“How long had she been in the water?”

“I don’t know. She was in the tub when I got here.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Ten minutes?” I guessed. Time was distorted. I thought back to the rain, the splintery handrail. “Maybe fifteen.”

Maybe I was dragged backward; maybe I floated. Footsteps splashed behind me, navy-blue shirts filled the room and hallway. Lights turned on abruptly—the hall, the bedrooms. A voice giving directions. Another asking me questions. I couldn’t look directly at anyone. I’m not here. This isn’t happening.

When I stood, I paced the hallway, wild-eyed and shivering, glancing at Sandy every few seconds, like she might sit up, spit water from her mouth like a fountain, and cough. Like she might end the nightmare.

A blue shirt appeared in front of my face, blocking my path. A light shined in my eyes until I pushed away the hand that held it. I was acting crazy. I knew that.

They might think I was crazy, I considered.

Or they might think I killed her.

Then someone muttered the word drugs. A voice asked me directly, “What have you been taking tonight?”

I swallowed, shook my head. I wondered what they already knew about me. I pictured Cal’s expression. I started to find words to describe what I’d taken that day, to say it was just for symptom control—a mood stabilizer—but they were drowned out by the reverberation of a singular idea: Sandy had drowned.

I realized I was trying to think up a path toward a place where what had just happened … hadn’t.

I bit my cuticles, walked a tight circle.

Water everywhere, puddles under shoes.

There had to be something to do. That was the problem—helplessness. There was absolutely nothing to do.

I couldn’t think about Paolo, not yet. But the great expanse—of he and I, and the way he died—was rising inside me like a bubble from the bottom of the ocean. It was only a matter of time before it reached the surface and became a part of the atmosphere.

How did this happen? Matt’s name, his hoodied shape, his smoky trail at Dr. Silver’s holiday party, were sharpening in my mind.

Then there was another voice, light reflecting off metal badges, and the scratch and crackle of a radio. There was a hand suddenly on both of my shoulders. “Excuse me, Miss.” These weren’t questions, I ascertained; they were directives for me to stop pacing. My shoes squeaked to a halt. When my eyes found the face from which the voice was coming, I understood it was not an EMT. This was a cop, somewhere in his late twenties, crew-cut blond hair wet from the rain.

He asked, “Did you place the call to 911?”

“Yes. Me.”

“Oh. Hi,” he said. A wave of recognition washed over his face. “I need you to come on downstairs for me. Okay?”

In Sandy’s kitchen, he half rotated a chair and pointed at it.

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